← Harold's Old Time Radio
Harold's Old Time Radio
Night Cap Yarns 19xx.xx.xx Two Hundred Dollars
00:15:48
Night Cap Yarns 19xx.xx.xx Two Hundred Dollars
Loading summary
Transcript5 lines
- [00:01]
Frank Graham
The Cardinal Company presents Frank Graham One Man Theater.
- [00:20]
Steve Patty
Steve Patty twirled a thick cigar on his fat fingers. He surveyed his lineup of gunmen. There was Joe, with a thick red scar across his right cheek, muggsy, hefty and flat nosed, and the whiskey thin, wiry and nervous. Steve flicked the ash from a cigar. Now listen, men. I don't want any slip ups tonight because this is the perfect bang job. You get me the perfect job.
- [00:46]
Frank Graham
And so begins the story. $200. The Tuesday night story in the series of nightcap yarns. Cardinal's colorful action and adventure tales designed as a fitting capper to your evening's entertainment. Every night, Monday through Friday, a different type of yarn is offered. Westerns, adventure sports, all with an appeal of their own. Tuesday night means crime Story night. Here is your yarn spinner, Frank Graham, to play all the roles in tonight's story. $200.
- [01:19]
Steve Patty
The smooth black car carrying the four gunmen moved almost silently through the darkened streets of the city. It was 2am the streets were deserted, with the exception stray bum nodding on a park bench and a few late stragglers. Steve Patty leaned back on a cushioned seat of his luxurious custom made car. Joe was driving. Mugsy was beside him. Next to Steve in the back seat was Skeeter, Prize shot of the gang. His fingers fidgeted in his coat pocket as he toyed with his automatic. Steve smiled. Everything had been arranged for absolutely everything. He and his whole gang were thought to be in St. Louis. That was a good one. In St. Louis, away and with foolproof alibis. This was too good. It was almost too easy. They approached their destination. The car careened to the curb. Patty leaned forward for just an instant. It's all set. All work that man. Now go get it. There's 500 grand in there. Get it. His three henchmen slipped out of the car. Steve leaned back. It was all working like clockwork. He didn't even have to watch. He knew that his men silently and efficiently would have the door. Then the vault open, would have the money, and then they'd speed back to their private landing field, back into the plane and St. Louis. And it was such a good joke. And they would go to sleep, then wake up the next morning in a hotel, ring for room service and get a breakfast worthy of his cleverness as something very tasty, very rare, very delicate. This was the life. All you needed was brains. He glanced toward the bank. Not a murmur from inside. Everything seemed to be working in good order. And then Steve heard footsteps. Footsteps that clicked monotonously against the hard pavement. Cops. Steve glanced back hurriedly. No. There were two young men walking toward the car. They hadn't noticed anything yet. Those fools inside would only hurry or wait until these kids passed. Those boys were walking so slowly. This wouldn't do. This. This didn't fit into the plans. How could he get them out of the way? How could he warn those saps inside to stay in there until they had passed? Well, then again, maybe it'd be better to hurry them up, make a quick getaway. But surely they'd suspect something if they saw a big black car parked in front of a bank at this hour of the morning. Parked in front, the motor primed for a getaway. Where were his men? What was taking them so long? Every step of the approaching walkers made him more nervous. He glanced back. The two young fellows seemed to be noticing the car, but one of them, the younger of the two, was pointing it out to his companion, and they seemed to be carrying on an animated conversation about it. Suddenly the door of the bank burst open and his men hurried out, carrying a small black satchel. Steve squirmed on his seat, rooted to the spot as the two young men hurried toward them. One of them called out, hey, what are you doing there? Skeeter turned on Steve, groaned as he saw the body slowly sink to the pavement. Get in the car. The body lay there on the pavement. The other boy leaned over him, shocked, too dazed by the quick action of it all to collect his senses. David. David. They killed you, Steve. Patty. Steve. Patty. I know you. Steve was tense, and beads of perspiration rolled down his fat face. You saps. You imbeciles. You had such clever fingers here you can't make a fist out of them, but you're awful quick on the trigger, you saps, you. Mosquito squirmed in his seat. Get it, will you, Cheat. Here's a couple of lightweights, that's all. Nothing will come of it. Nothing. In my eye. We have the perfect bank job. A job I planned for weeks, and you guys got to spoil it all. Muggsy shrugged his shoulders. What's one more guy in a cemetery mean to you, Chief? If you got a perfect alibi for the bank job, you got a perfect califi for the shooting, too. Well, who was that? What was he doing there? Joe slowed down the car enough to call back. I've seen him before, boss. The guy we didn't get, I mean, he's an actor. I think the guy we plugged was his brother. The actor's name is Johnny Becker. Skeeter smiled reassuringly. Sure Chief, just like I told you. He's a lightweight. He couldn't blow over a feather. You don't have a thing to worry about. Steve leaned back and smiled. Sure, why worry? The plane was waiting and that breakfast too. He'd have something real delicate padded a poi grass or. Or maybe even fried sparrows wings. When the police came and the screaming ambulance, Johnny Becker had been two days too shocked to even talk. All he did was mutter. I'll get him. I'll get him. They took him to a hospital to rest. All that night he tossed and turned on a white bed. The next morning the police officials came to question him. It was Steve Patty. It was Steve Patty that killed my brother. They were doing a bank job and Davy tried to stop him and then they shot him. The lieutenant in charge laid his hand on Johnny's shoulder reassuringly. Now, are you quite sure, lad? You see, we've checked on Patty already and it seems he's in St. Louis. He's been there for a couple of days. Johnny looked up bewildered. But, But I'm sure now I'll yell at. Do you know Patty? Well, only from his pictures in the papers. Uh huh. Did you see him? I mean, is he the one who shot your brother? No, no, no. He was in the car. He was sitting there. Did you look at him full in the face? Well no. Only a glance, kind of. But. But I'm sure. What kind of a car was it, lad? Well, a big black car or. What kind? I. I don't know. Did you get the license number? No, I. I don't think there was one. But you're sure it was Patty and his gang? Well I. I thought so, but. Johnny writhed on the bed rubbing his head. It all seemed. Seemed such a nightmare. So unbelievable. So. So like a bad dream. What could he tell these men with their insistent pounding questions? Davey was dead. That was all that mattered. Davy, his brother, the only person in the world he loved, was dead. He turned to the lieutenant. It. It was Paddy. It was Steve. Patty, I tell you. Get him. The newsboys screened their extras in the streets, happy to quit it. All about it. Big black headlines, 4 inches high, soggy newsprint blotting up the fact in burning words that the well known gang leader was scot free. Patty A. Quinn. Read all about it. Patty A. Quinn. The shrill cries of the newsboys rang in Johnny's ears as he sat in the prosecutor's office. Close that window for the love of heaven. That's brother Johnny stared in front of him, his eyes hot, his heart beating rapidly. Oh, what a farce that trial was. Perjury from the word go. Why, you could smell that bribe money a mile away. Patty used up a big chunk of that $500,000 to buy off witnesses to get free of this rap. Prosecutor was calm, reassuring. Try to calm down, Johnny. Law always gets its man. Maybe in the calm light of reflection you rearrange the details of it all a lot better. Patty's story seems foolproof. Maybe it was somebody else. No, it wasn't. All right. If not, then Patty will receive his due. Never fear. I'm gonna see that he does. Now don't be a fool, Johnny. Don't do anything you'll be sorry for. Don't worry. I have my plans. I have my plans. Johnny wandered down near the waterfront. It was raining. A slow, steady, drizzling rain. And far out in the water, the moan of the foghorns pierced the air. He glanced down at the water squishing and turning around the feet of the wooden pier heads. What was the point of it all? His senses were dulled momentarily and then he thought of Davey. He turned up his collar and pulled on the brim of his hat. He'd do it. He had to. Through the dim haze of the fog, he could see Davey's face nodding to him, reassuring him. Nodding yes, yes, yes. Johnny hurried up the street. He stopped at a small cafe. A cafe beneath the life of the street, beneath the life of the city. He opened the door and went in. Smoke filled the low ceiling room. He approached the bartender. Is Joe Morelli here? The barkeeper glanced up hurriedly. How are you? Nobody. Nobody in particular. What do you want? Just like to talk to him early, that's all. What's up your sleeve? Johnny slipped the barkeeper dollar bill. The barkeeper sized him up. That's more like it. You ain't a copper, are you? Don't be a SAP. Do I look like one? Eh? All right. He's in the back room. Stay down. Back. Johnny walked to the back of the cafe and shoved open the door. Morelli was seated at a table, his head in his arms. He was snoring. Johnny shook him. He opened his eyes. He was an ugly looking individual with shifty eyes and unshaven face. Who are you? It doesn't matter. I've got a job for you. What kind of a job? I. I want you to get Steve Patty for me. What you got against Patty killed my brother. Morelli eyed him. It'll Cost you dough. How much, though? 200 bucks. Johnny's heart sank. I haven't got that much. Sorry you were. You couldn't root for less. Morelli spat out a toothpick. No. Thanks anyway. Johnny turned and went out. Straight through the smoke filled room, out the door and into the wet night. The next day, Steve Patty was out walking with Skeeter. Yeah, feels good to get out. I'm cooped up in the hangout so much I start to feel like a fat lady's poodle. Suddenly, Skeeter grabbed Steve by the arm. Hey, look. Look who's coming down the street. Where? Right up ahead. Hey, it's that lightweight. It's Becker. Yeah, I see him. Yeah. What are you gonna do, chief? Never mind. Scram. Well, what are you gonna do, Jeff? I said scram. Okay, okay, chief. Steve approached Johnny. Well, hello, Becca. Johnny looked up, startled. Oh, it's you. Don't turn away. I ain't poisoned. You are to me. Now that's no way to talk. I'm a really pretty good guy when you get to know me. Yeah, yeah, I'll bet. Sure. And to prove to you I am, I'd like to kind of help you out. What's the matter, Patty? You got a guilty conscience? Cut that out. No, no. I just want to show you I'm regular guy now. You look kind of down in the mouth. You need some new clothes and things. I'd kind of like to help you out. Yeah, sure, sure. If you need any dough, kid, I'd be glad to lend you something. Kind of help you along. Dough? Yeah. Can you. Can you lend me $200? 200 bucks? Sure. Tang. There you are, kid. I'll be seeing you. And you can pay me back whenever you're good and ready. Johnny glanced down at the two crisp bills in his hand. Thanks. Thanks a lot. And Steve, don't worry. I'll pay you back.
- [15:25]
Frank Graham
And so ends steady. $200. Written especially for Frank Graham one man theater and presented by the Cardinal Company. Join us again at this same time tomorrow. This is Art Gilmore speaking.